Artistry
by reminiscent-afterthought
Summary: [AU] If only he could paint the sun...but it was impossible in so many ways. Not only did no colour match it, but there was a kind of darkness in everyone that changed it. But each attempt is a story, and this one starts with a cheerful highschool boy, and ends with a boy almost too far in shadows to save, but as an artist Johan knows his duty is to find that shine in everyone.


**A/N: **It's been a while since I've written anything GX, but now I'm back with a fic written for one of my challenges on the GX Writing Academy Forum (link's on my profile), to write a non-DA AU with the characters of GX. The perfect time to play with painter!Johan. :D

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**Artistry  
Chapter 1**

_If only I could paint with the sun_, Johan sighed to himself, pushing his stool a little further back under the tree to hide from the concrete rays. It wasn't a whole lot better, but once he'd moved the paint and brushes and easel too, he found his work in progress was now longer bleached a strong yellow but closer to its original brown.

He wondered if he could keep a bit of that bleached look, spinning the brush gently so the bristles glowed a warm brown. If he squinted a bit, tilted his head and forgot the logic that made the sun's rays untouchable, it was as though the tip of his brush was soaked with a paint he could never find on earth. It was a shame too, but he grinned to himself and brushed gently anyway; the light twisted and bent as though his painting attracted it.

Then he laughed louder and dropped the brush. His "piece of art", as it were, was nothing more than the first layer of paint: the brown that depicted sun-kissed skin. And there was too much brown; he hadn't noticed until the sun had almost washed it out, but that was the sort of painter he was: one who picked up on the cues of coincidence, who didn't put every cent and drop of sweat into serious art but rather tried show a world they could enjoy. They: the passersby who gave his easel a fleeting image, the orphanage where he donated some of his masterpieces, the gallery where Mr. Crawford sometimes displayed his most attention-grabbing work – the kind of work that brightened the world, the man said. Which secretly flattered Johan, since that was _exactly_ the sort of artist he wanted to be, even if it was by far a profitable profession.

Not that he _needed_ a profitable profession; he was pretty much set for life with his inheritance, a sad stroke of luck not many received. So he could dedicate as much time as he wanted to his paintings – and their many subjects.

His current one was an ignorant school-boy skipping classes, bathing in the sun like a house-hold cat. _Or maybe a wild cat,_ Johan mused, picking up his little stub of charcoal and making light sketch-marks on the canvas. Puts in the way the body's splayed flat without a strain in sight. Puts in the look of relaxation and contentment on that face, the lack of crease marks that marred the worried soul. Put in the utterly lax way he displayed himself, shirt only half-buttoned and jacket none at all, hair sticking up with all directions and entertaining leaves and stick insects and somehow still slick with the wet paint of the sun.

_White_, Johan decided, almost sticking the charcoal stump before catching himself and swapping it for the paint brush. White for a shirt whose collar danced on the dull wind, who was filled out a bit by body-heat but would be no better than a shower-screen if soaking and clinging to brown skin. Contradictory images they might be, but Johan found them coming together under his brush, tender sweeping strokes that clung to the earthly brown skin – not yet sun-kissed because the sun had to be the final layer; it always was – and filled out.

It didn't look like a human yet, nor a shirt, but he could tilt his head a little and imagine the other layers on top: the pants that still somewhat clung to the tails, the jacket that went over that and the sun that bathed it all and caused him to – 'glow,' Johan said to himself, aloud, before chewing at the end of his paintbrush again. 'Yep. Glow. That sounds 'bout right.'

He wondered if he should make a dual layer of yellow; that might work better with creating the glow effect. He tilted his head some more, giving the painting his most critical gaze. 'Glow,' he mumbled to himself. 'Glow, glow –'

'What are you painting?' someone asked suddenly, and Johan met the chocolate brown eyes of his subject. He'd opened his eyes and rolled over a bit, propping himself up on an elbow so he could see into the tree's shade.

'You,' Johan returned with a grin, watching the boy laugh and then sit up.

'Me,' he repeated. 'Why? I'm that good looking?'

'You're interesting.'

'Ah.' The boy stood and shook himself, dislodging the debris from his hair. 'Should I be worried about that?'

It was said in jest, as was most of their conversation. 'Not at all. I'm not known for my muscles.' He set his brush down and flexed a bicep; the loose sleeves hid any change.

'Skipping sport then?' The boy came over, raising an eyebrow at the painting. 'That's me? I didn't realise I'd be so – ' He fumbled a bit for a word. 'Brown and white,' he said finally.

'It's not much,' Johan admitted. 'I just saw you and had to start painting.'

'Really?' The boy looked at the paints spread on the grass, then at the painting once more, taking in the light charcoal outline and the white that wrapped around it. 'Looks a bit like a spirit,' he said contemplatively. 'A bit spooky, really.'

'Try it in the sun,' Johan suggested, pushing the easel back so the rays seeping through the branches bathed the canvas.

The boy looked closely at it, before nodding. 'That does look cool.'

'Doesn't it?' Johan was pretty proud of himself; his subjects usually caught him eventually, and it was always nice to hear approval from them. And about them as well; somehow that gave even more life to the painting, in the end. It was always fun – so long as he'd seen enough to be able to _paint_ when the subject was next to him instead of in the pose he was painting them.

'So what are you?' the boy asked curiously, returning to the painter.

'A traveller,' Johan replied. 'When I find something that shines bright, I paint it. And when I find something looking gloomy, I try to brighten it up.'

'Cool,' the boy said again. 'I'm just a high-schooler.' He looked down at himself, before adding: 'Though math is a pain. And English. And science.' He paused, then corrected himself. 'Actually, I just don't get science. Daitokuji-sensei's classes are pretty interesting.'

'Really?' Johan asked, leaning down and dipping the paint brush into the small jar of turpentine. The white leaked slowly out, and he wriggled the brush a bit to encourage it. Once clean, the brush went into the yellow, then edging the charcoal on canvas.

'Yep, though none of it makes sense.' The boy shrugged. 'I guess I don't have a head for science. But I'm not looking to be a Doctor or anything.' He watched the soft yellow outline form, then added: 'How's travelling? Don't your parents mind?'

'Nope.' Johan could have said more, but he left it at that. 'And travelling's fun. Nothing beats seeing the world with somebody else's eyes, seeing the things that make people smile and spreading it. Though the food takes a bit of getting used to. And the languages.'

'Your accent's not bad,' the boy said. 'What is it anyway? American?'

'European,' Johan said, amused. 'Hard to see why you're not at school right now.'

The boy shrugged. 'School's not for me. What can I say? Though "Drop-Out Boy" might be pushing it a little; I'm still enrolled after all.'

"Drop-Out Boy." He'd heard that name before. 'So you're Yuki Judai?' he asked, dipping the brush lightly into the turpentine to thin the paint, before adding a little brightness to the brown. 'Street gossip,' he explained to the inquisitive look he gained.

'Ah.' Judai grinned. 'Oh well, there are worse things to be known by. But that's me: the infamous Yuki Judai.' He offered a hand, which Johan, after setting his paint brush down, took. 'Show me the painting once you're done, okay? Though I'm sure I'll look cool either way.'

'I'm sure,' Johan said, watching him carefully. 'If you're here the same time tomorrow, we can chat some more too.'

Judai thought a moment, before agreeing. 'Sounds good; I love a good chat, and it's double English tomorrow with Chonos-sensei.' He grimaced at the very thought. 'Though there's sports after lunch.'

'Then I'll be sure not to keep you for too long,' Johan replied. 'What about today?'

'Lunch of course.' Judai laughed. 'The cafeteria food beats my cooking any day.'

And he waved and was gone as though a sudden wind had blown through the summer day, and Johan finished the light touches of yellow and packed up his paints. The painting: a marriage of brown, white and yellow, did look somewhat plain now – but that wasn't a huge concern. The earlier stages always did, before he could put some semblance of life into it.

He was curious to know how that would turn out, and later, when he ran over the brief conversation in his head, disappointed to find he had discovered not much more than a kindred spirit somewhere deep down. A younger spirit, who hadn't had the chance to experience the taste of other worlds – or even the experience of being under an artist's, any artist's, brush.

'Well –,' And the canvas, dried by the light summers wind, was carefully wrapped. 'I guess we'll get to know him better tomorrow.' The wind whistled softly, and the leaves rustled. 'Isn't that right, girl?'

He looked at the ring on his finger as he spoke, catching a ripple of agreement and a fleeting pale red darting into the shadows. He smiled at it, checked his ring once more – stone safe – and headed on out, letting the sun wash away the last clinging shadows.


End file.
